


Electric Dreams

by matchka



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bounty Hunters, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M, and probably sex later, don't read it with your grandma okay, not another Cyborg!Marco fic, there's violence and stuff, this is a very cynical fic I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchka/pseuds/matchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"he looks up, and there’s the Synthetic, serene and smiling, and Jean’s arms are pinned at interesting angles, caught in the vicegrip of the Synth’s lean-muscled thighs.</p>
<p>This is how Jean Kirschtein ends up between the legs of a Synthetic assassin, and, in hindsight, the exact moment his life is fucked up beyond all recognition."</p>
<p>Jean Kirschtein is a freelance bounty hunter, tasked with hunting down rogue Synthetics: biomechanical humanoids built in the image of man. His approach is simple: get in, get the target, get paid. Or at least, it used to be...</p>
<p>Enter Marco, a rogue Synthetic on the run and Jean's newest target. Only there's something different about him. Something Jean can't quite figure out. But he's a sucker for a mystery, and a pretty face, and before Jean knows it, his life is inextricably tangled in Marco's. And it only goes downhill from there.<br/><a href="http://revolvermonkcelot.tumblr.com/post/80458695503">When is this fic updating?</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been meaning to write a cyborg!Marco fic for ages, since the artwork first started cropping up on Tumblr, but had no idea what to do with the idea. Then I rewatched Blade Runner, and this fic just sort of happened. So uh. I hope you like it!

In the twenty-five years which constitute his life so far, Jean Kirschtein has been in more strange and alarming situations than he’s had microwave dinners. Even so, his present situation has to rate somewhere in the top five. In the top two, even.

  
His present situation can be summarised thusly: he’s lying on his back on a sea of broken safety glass, staring stupidly up at his assailant. Hard little pebbles of the stuff grind beneath his immobilised body, sticking sharp into his soft parts. It hurts like a bitch; just what the fuck is so safe about it? One arm is twisted painfully beneath him, and if his left ankle isn’t just a little bit broken he’ll be very surprised.

  
The Synthetic straddling him is one of those brand new hyper-modern ones; he’s got the lab-grown organic skin and everything, probably all the corresponding squishy bits on the inside too. Jean might know this if he’d managed to inflict so much as a scratch on the bastard, but here he is, pinned between the Synthetic’s thighs, staring up at a face which seems entirely too pleased to be atop him. You’d be forgiven for thinking he was human – he’s been crafted with incredibly specific details, from the dark, girlish eyelashes to the spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. The only thing marking him out as a nonhuman sentient are his eyes, pupils contracting and dilating utterly at random. Apparently, science still hasn’t figured out how to breach the uncanny valley where ocular organs are concerned.

  
(There are other markers, if you know where to look, but he's hardly in a position to do that.)

He’s beautiful. All Synthetics are; they’re as much art as they are functional, breathing sculptures designed to look pretty even as they serve up your cheeseburger and fries, or unclog your drains. His thighs are powerful, strung tight with artificial muscles and tendons far stronger than Jean’s – it doesn’t help that the most exercise Jean’s been getting for the last couple of months is walking between the fridge and the sofa. And it occurs to Jean, somewhat tragically, that he’s not been straddled like this a very, very long time.

_This is the closest thing I’ve had to a sex life in over two years_ , he thinks, glowering up at the cheerful Synth with as much ire as he can summon, awkward position be damned.

As the Synthetic leans down, thick fingers forming a cage around Jean’s throat, Jean thinks: Fuck my life. Fuck it hard.

Hands press on Jean’s windpipe. He tastes blood; perhaps he’s missing a tooth. Not that it matters now, with the world turning grey at the edges, and the Synthetic’s beatific face leaning closer and closer to his, and the total absence of breath against his face is more unnerving than it has any right to be.

Asphyxiated between the taut thighs of a smiling, beautiful humanoid replica.

There are probably worse ways to go, Jean thinks.

Just as he thinks he’s done for – just as his limbs begin to slacken and his face turns numb, the Synth presses cold lips against his ear and whispers: “I’m sorry, am I hurting you?”

*

Jean has been a Synth-hunter for four years now; unlike most, he’s freelance, which translates roughly as ‘I’m not getting out of bed for less than one hundred dollars per hour.’ And it probably qualifies as some form of extortion, but it works: the problem with being tied to a corporation is that you’re only authorised to hunt down rogue Synthetics operating within a designated zone – works fine in principle, but try explaining to a pissed- off client that you had to let the target go because they went into the Walmart off Fifth Street, and that’s totally out of bounds. 

Also, the corporate hunters are duty-bound to wear the company logo. Fuck that noise.

He gets the call – from Erd Gin, no less, personal assistant to the Erwin Smith – on a Tuesday evening, at around eight PM, which is when Jean is supposed to be working out. In reality, he’s eating cold pizza rolls in his underwear and watching the home shopping channel, and it’s probably a good thing Erd calls when he does, because he’s seriously considering purchasing an electric pasta-rolling machine. He’s not sure why. He doesn’t even like pasta.

“Got a situation,” Erd says, when Jean picks up.

“Figured as much,” Jean replies, wiping crumbs from the TV remote. “What’s the brief?”

“Target was last seen entering the old Shiganshina apartment complex at sixteen-hundred-hours.” (Erd’s an ex-military man; the twenty-four hour clock thing is far from his weirdest habit.) “Petra’s transferring the target’s details to your ‘Sphere. Those apartments could crumble at any time, so be careful.”

“Thanks, mom. Why aren’t you sending Levi?” He’s not shooting himself in the foot here. Levi is ReCorp’s personal Synth-hunter and is widely regarded as the best of the best. Corporate restrictions aren’t an issue for him; he’s so efficient at what he does that his targets simply don’t get the chance to escape. He could easily freelance, and he’d probably be more suited to it. He’s hardly a model employee, refusing interviews and shunning corporate events, but he chooses, stubbornly, to remain shackled to ReCorp. At least he gets a moderately cool logo.

“The target’s out of our jurisdiction. I don’t need to remind you to make this a subtle operation.”

Jean stretches his legs, examining the criss-cross pattern of old scars, pale furrows glistening pinkly. The most recent ones are still an angry red, marking the path of his shinbone like a relief map. “Erd, I’m as subtle as a brick to the face. You ask me to do something illegal, the least you can do is let me handle it as I see fit.”

“Fine. But if you get caught, this conversation never happened.”

“I hear you. I expect ReCorp to stump up for my bail, though. I’m far too pretty for jail.”

There’s a disdainful snort from the other end of the phone, and Jean wonders who else is listening in. Someone not acquainted with the gentle art of self-derisive sarcasm, apparently. “You play with fire, Kirschtein, you’re liable to get burnt,” Erd replies, sounding vaguely amused. “Deadline is one week – you get a bonus if you bring the Synth within three days. Oh, and we need this one functional if possible.”

“No pressure, eh?”

“Go check your ‘Sphere and get to work.”

Jean drops the phone onto the coffee table and scoops up the remains of his pizza-roll dinner. Technically, what he does is highly illegal, but he’s yet to encounter any meaningful opposition. It helps that local police chief Reiner Braun’s got his back – as crooked a cop as he’s ever met, but crooked in his favour, so Jean’s fine that that. And the general public are hardly going to report him for it – they’re shit-scared of Synthetics, especially the more obvious ones. Synths are stronger, smarter, more durable, usually sexier, and here to take all the shitty minimum-wage jobs away from people who, selfishly, demand such things as ‘sick pay’ and ‘overtime’. Synthetics are the future, and humans are looking increasingly obsolete; who wouldn’t be afraid?

Jean’s not afraid, but Jean’s a contrary asshole at the best of times. He’s got a reputation for doing stupid, dangerous things and surviving, inexplicably. It’s a reputation which keeps him in business, and has earned him the nickname ‘Cockroach Kirschtein’ – coined by one Eren Jaeger, corporate bounty-hunter and perhaps his number one rival, when you get right down to it.

(Jean thinks it’s fucking hilarious, because really he's just about the least self-sacrificing individual there is; most of the stunts he’s supposed to have pulled have been horrible accidents which somehow turned out for the better. Not that he’s about to let on; his reputation’s the only thing getting the rent paid on time.)

He boots up his laptop and carries it into the bathroom with him, propping on the closed toilet lid as he brushes his teeth. “Access ‘Sphere,” he tells it, through a mouthful of minty bristles. It shouldn’t respond to voice command, or even connect to the ‘Sphere at all, but Connie works miracles, and modding the ancient tech Jean clings stubbornly to is pretty much a hobby for him at this point. 

“Password” the laptop prompts, in the austere English schoolmarm voice Jean has come to think of as ‘The Dominatrix’. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Jean replies. 

“Welcome,” The Dominatrix replies, a tad frostily. The projector blinks on and the blindingly white light of the ‘Sphere startup illuminates the tiny bathroom, spilling out onto the mildewed tiles. To use the ‘Sphere properly, you need some kind of intermediary device – most people use a glove or a stylus – but Jean’s inherently suspicious of anything like that, and voice command suits him just fine, even if it is three or four years out of date. 

“Show me my new files,” Jean tells it, scooping cold water up in his cupped hands. He gives his face a cursory wash; when he peers up in the mirror his hair is sticking up in all directions. He might have been able to get away with it were he five years younger, or substantially cuter, but it just makes him look like a bedraggled ex-popstar with a meth problem. He’d been handsome once. Those were good times. He slicks his hair back with water, tries to ignore the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"Files ready to view," the Dominatrix replies frostily.

His right leg starts to throb, a familiar dull, dragging ache. He reaches into the medicine cabinet for the box of painkillers but thinks better of it. He turns to the ‘Sphere projection instead. It's his own fault. He should be exercising, keeping up with his physio, but he’s been sat on that couch so long he feels like he’s starting to fuse with it. Motivation’s a funny thing, he thinks; he’s turned down several jobs, and he’s inclined to turn this one down too, but the rent’s not going to pay itself.

Petra, as always, is ridiculously efficient and has sent multiple shots of the target Synthetic. “Enlarge images,” Jean says, perching delicately on the edge of the bathtub. The image complies, expanding in midair to reveal a smiling face, dark hair, pleasingly symmetrical features. Handsome, in a safe, reassuring kind of way, and therefore probably built to work in some kind of caregiving capacity - nursing, perhaps. There’s precious little information to go on, and the face doesn’t even come with a name, but Petra has been thoughtful enough to provide annotated maps of his last known location, and grainy CCTV stills which show the Synthetic in a variety of interesting poses, shimmying up a drainpipe and into a window on the second floor. Jean studies these images as he shucks off his underpants, leaving them draped over the side of the bath - fuck it, he can do the laundry later. 

"All this technology and CCTV images still suck," he says, mostly to himself. And then, to the Dominatrix: "Download images to cell." He's about to scoop up the laptop and close down the 'Sphere when a call comes through, and before he can protest Connie's face appears, a disembodied hologram staring in horror at Jean's nudity.

"Dude, put some fucking clothes on," Connie says, averting his gaze.

"Don't be such a kid. You've seen worse," Jean replies, but grabs a towel from the stand and winds it around himself, toga-style. "Okay, I've put it away."

"You're lucky it was me," Connie says. The projection isn't the best quality, but Jean can still see every individual hair sprouting from Connie's scalp, short and prickly like a hedgehog with a buzzcut. His own scar is horribly visible, a long white ridge running diagonally from his temple, tracing the circumference of his skull all the way down to his neck. "What if it was your mom or something?"

"My mom can't use the 'Sphere," Jean replies. He grabs the laptop in one hand, holding the towel up with the other, and heads out into the bedroom; Connie's face follows him like a ghost down the hallway. "She can barely use the Internet."

"Well, whatever. Anyway, I was reading your emails and..."

"Wait." Jean dumps the laptop on the bed, balancing precariously atop the piled blankets. There's a stack of clothing sitting on his dresser. Apparently, ninety percent of the clothing he owns are old, worn jeans. He sifts through the mountain of denim, looking for his work clothes; nondescript grey shirt and trousers reinforced with a light bulletproof mesh. "You read my emails?"

"Sure," Connie replies, shrugging; he's got the kind of raspy voice that sounds perpetually besieged by static, or like he's been gargling with gravel. "You never revoked access, so I figured it was okay. Anyway, it's a good thing I did, because I saw Petra sent you files over the 'Sphere. This Synth ReCorp have you chasing? You gotta be careful..."

"I'm always careful," Jean says.

"Yeah, but this one's different. Actually, I'm surprised they're sending you in, because..."

He rankles at that. "You think I can't handle it?" he says, pointing an accusatory finger at the projection.

"Jean, will you shut up and let me finish?"

Jean holds up both hands in a conciliatory gesture; his towel slips in the process, and Connie's resulting grimace is funnier than it has any right to be. There's a pair of underpants on the top of the clean laundry pile and he slips them on, mildly dismayed at the way his gut hangs ever so slightly over the waistband. Once upon a time, not so long ago, he'd been pure, lean muscle, built like an athlete and every bit as capable. A well-oiled machine, slowly rusting now, and only himself to blame.

"Two days ago, I got word over the 'Sphere of an escaped Synthetic. I like to make notes, you know, in case they send you in, and it's a good thing I did. Jean, this one's real fuckin’ dangerous. I know he looks pretty innocent but he’s non-Asimov compliant. He killed one guard escaping, crippled two more, and if what I'm hearing is true, he's already killed at least one civilian."

Jean pauses, fingers lingering over his shirt buttons. Synthetics are supposed to be programmed with a failsafe: the Asimov Edict, a kind of automatic self-destruct which triggers the moment they harm a human being. If what Connie’s saying is right, it means that either the target has somehow broken his programming, or, in a fit of total insanity, his creators bypassed the failsafe entirely.

Neither possibility is ideal, but the second is pretty fucking alarming.

“You know,” Connie says, in that too-casual way which means he’s about to make an idiotic suggestion. “If I were still your Runner, I could scope him out for you. Lay traps, maybe…”

“Stop right there,” Jean says. “I don’t use Runners anymore, and if you think I’m gonna send you in there, after what happened last time…”

“I got out,” Connie interrupts. “I was fine. Jeez, man, you’ve got to quit moping and get over that. What happened to the girl…It wasn’t your fault…”

It’s lucky Connie’s face is holographic right now, because Jean’s sorely tempted to put a fist through his teeth. “Levi doesn’t use Runners, and neither do I. Conversation’s over, Springer,” he says, buttoning his shirt with rage-clumsy fingers.  “End call. Initiate ‘Sphere shutdown.”

Connie’s protest is cut off before it even begins, and when Jean blinks the bright imprint of his wide green-gold eyes seems burned into his retinas. He mutters some half-hearted complaint about the intrusiveness of technology, and Connie fucking Springer’s total inability to just leave things alone. It’s not up to him to absolve Jean of his guilt. And how would he know a damn thing about whose fault any of it was? He’d been unconscious the entire time, skull cracked, head bleeding, and that _had_ been Jean’s fault, no doubt about it…

From the living room, the cheerful chime of his cellphone indicates the successful upload of the Synth’s files, jolting Jean momentarily out of his reverie. He buttons his trousers and kneels beside the bed. His knees grind; the joints feel like they’re coated in sandpaper, and he grimaces at the too-familiar sensation.

Jean slips a black leather case from beneath the bed, unclips it. Inside, nestled among worn grey velvet are his two sidekicks. He hasn’t touched the Jericho in months, and the sleek metal feels good against his fingers; the weight of it is a comfort, like shaking hands with an old friend. To think I almost threw you in the river he thinks, running his fingers over the trigger guard. 

He slips the Jericho in its holster and reaches for the Disruptor. 

The Jericho has never let him down. He’s comfortable with bullets. They’re consistent; you know what you’re getting when you load a round and pull the trigger. You know what the end result is going to be. And Jean’s long past swooning at the sight of blood, Synthetic or otherwise.

The Disruptor, though. He eyes the device with suspicion. It’s battered, bearing the scars of the last job, and he’s not even certain it works anymore, but…he shakes his head and tucks the stupid thing into his shoulder holster. It’s a lump beneath his arm, and he resents it presence, but it’s saved his ass more than once, and no self-respecting professional Synth-hunter would leave home without one. 

He looks down at his rumpled clothes, the patched-up bulletholes and the scars he knows lie beneath; at the small swell of his gut over his waistband, and the frayed tongue of his steel-capped boots.

Self-respect was never one of Jean’s strong points.

*

District Rose is a neon headache, a bright blur behind rain-wet windows. Jean sits alone at the front of the mono, head pressed against the glass, trying to identify each smudge of colour as the mono speeds high above the city, through to Shiganshina. After a while, all the corporate logos look the same; all brash, bold, ‘look-at-me’ bullshit, a cluster of ugly buildings clogging up the city like rats in a drainpipe. It’s a relief when they enter the residential zone, where the muted glow of bedroom windows and flickering streetlamps take over, and Jean’s eyes once again adjust to the gloom.

The Shiganshina apartment complex is on the outskirts of District Maria, abandoned years ago after a chemical explosion triggered mass evacuation. The regeneration of District Maria was pencilled in a few years back, but so far not a single brick has been laid, and the place remains a wasteland; a pockmarked landscape of empty-shell buildings, churned, contaminated earth and a chain-link fence marking out the safe zone. The sheer number of holes in that fence – and the chaotic scrawl of graffiti on the buildings just beyond – suggest that the perimeter isn’t as tightly guarded as it once was.

Jean hops off the mono at District Maria West and walks the rest of the way. He’s nondescript enough so that he blends nicely into the crowd; he had Bertholdt make his bulletproofs look like regular clothing, and here in Maria, grey is the new black. Everyone’s wearing it. Even the sky is grey, like it can’t be bothered to cycle through to full night, though the rain has stopped long enough for Jean to slip around the back of the station, unseen in the absence of street lights. The chainlink is too tall to scale comfortably, but there’s a convenient hole at the base, hidden in shadow. He wonders, as he slips through, whether his Asimov-noncompliant friend came this way. 

Footprints in the wet earth lead north. Jean’s no tracker, but they look fresh. The Shiganshina apartments loom ahead, crooked as old teeth and just as rotten; the stink of crumbling plaster and wet, decaying carpet carries on the breeze. He breaks into a trot as the rain begins to fall, fat droplets pinging noisily off the concrete underfoot. _Of all the places to come_ , he thinks, _why here?_

The empty desolation of the street ahead is all the answer he needs.

*

The apartment hallways are pitch dark, cast in pale yellow by the light of Jean’s torch; the warped plaster and peeling wallpaper conspire to create swollen, misshapen walls, and the carpet squelches unpleasantly underfoot. It all seems hideously organic, the wallpaper bulging like loose flesh. It’s like walking through the world’s creepiest funhouse, or perhaps the freshly-drained artery of some giant creature. 

He tests each door as he passes, but they’re all either resolutely locked or so badly distorted in their frames that they’ll probably never open again without a sledgehammer. Jean takes the stairs to the first floor, hyperaware of the sound his boots make on every individual step. Even his breathing seems too loud here, where the only other sound is the click-drip of water seeping through the ceiling. He wills himself to breathe steady, to ignore the way his chest suddenly feels far too small to contain his lungs. _Afraid of the dark?_ he chides himself: _When did you become such a child_? The Jericho takes point, extended and ready as he turns the corner; there’s nothing there but a discarded blanket and an empty condom wrapper. Jean can’t think of a worse place to fuck, but people get their kicks in weird ways these days; good luck to anyone who finds derelict buildings in chemical fallout zones sexually stimulating, he thinks. Christ knows they probably need it.

Jean tiptoes out into the first floor hallway. Up here, weird graffiti marks the walls like a tattoo, freakish approximations of human forms crudely crafted in spraypaint; they grin at him as he passes by, all black, empty mouths and misshapen eyes. Stranger still, the quality of the scrawling seems to improve the further he goes, evolving from stick-figures to hollow-limbed ghostmen, proportions skewed but otherwise recognisable. Cave-art for a new generation.

The last ghostman is half-finished, rendered in shadow with a single white, blank eye staring out. For some reason, Jean can’t stand to look at it for too long. Fuck the Shiganshina apartments, he concludes, rounding the corner into the main atrium. Here, the domed glass roof has caved in, shattered like a thousand stars across the network of catwalks criss-crossing the atrium. At least there’s a little light, he thinks, squinting up at the spider’s web of walkways going up as far as the eye can see. His boots crunch as he moves towards the black mouth of the far corridor, careful sideways steps should his target appear behind him. Jean’s no amateur. He covers all his bases.

Or so he thinks.

The Synthetic comes in from above, flinging himself from the second floor catwalk with the careless abandon that only an artificial humanoid or a total fucking lunatic can truly possess. He’s a black shape in the periphery of Jean’s vision, and he barely has time to steel himself before the Synth crashes down; he hits the ground so hard he bounces, the Jericho spinning out of his hand and out of reach. As he lays there, dazed and breathless, he thinks he can feel each individual bone wrenching back into place. His head feels insubstantial, as if his grey matter has been replaced with helium. How much more punishment can his body possibly take? He goes to move, but his limbs aren’t getting the message, and for a long, cold moment he thinks he must be paralysed; his spinal cord has been severed like an old rope, bye-bye limbs, we had good times together. But then he looks up, and there’s the Synthetic, serene and smiling, and Jean’s arms are pinned at interesting angles, caught in the vicegrip of the Synth’s lean-muscled thighs.

This is how Jean Kirschtein ends up between the legs of a Synthetic assassin, and, in hindsight, the exact moment his life is fucked up beyond all recognition.  
  
*

“I’m sorry, am I hurting you?”

Jean’s barely able to choke out a surprised “yes”. The Synth’s reaction is instantaneous, drawing his hands sharply back like Jean’s throat is white-hot. Jean sucks in a lungful of air, breathing in great, undignified whoops, and the Synthetic actually looks fucking guilty, wringing his hands and frowning intently. 

“Human anatomy 101,” Jean rasps. He runs his tongue cursorily along the inside of his teeth, feeling for empty spaces. Everything seems intact. “We need our throats for breathing.”

“I’m sorry,” the Synthetic says, clearly aggrieved. “It really wasn’t my intention to harm you. I just…I thought you were one of the men from the facility. You dress similarly.” His eyes travel the length of Jean’s body, unabashed. “Well, from a distance. You’re not, are you? One of them, I mean.”

“I’m not one of anything,” Jean replies, terse. “Just your friendly neighbourhood derelict building inspector. Be a pal and hop off me, would you?”

The Synth obliges with alarming speed, scrambling to his feet. He’s wearing some kind of uniform – it looks like a prison jumpsuit, an interesting shade of pastel blue that Jean wouldn’t be seen dead in, but apparently Synths lack taste as well as pain receptors. Over it, he’s wearing an overcoat several sizes too big. Jean has a feeling it probably once belonged to one of the guards from the facility.

“You had a gun,” the Synthetic points out.

He’s going to have to tread carefully here. He’s been calm so far – meek, even – but without the failsafe he’s an unknown quantity. Jean is still a little dazed, and temporarily disarmed; if Freckles here flips, he’s at a distinct disadvantage.

“This isn’t the safest place to hang around,” Jean says. The gun is a few metres away, teetering on the edge of the catwalk. He pulls himself carefully into a sitting position, testing his limbs for injuries. His ankle aches like a rotten tooth, but it’ll hold. “I’ve been ambushed a few times. And you falling from the sky like that…” he shrugs, noncommittal: point proven. “What are you so jittery about, anyway? You could really hurt yourself pulling crazy stunts like that. Break your neck, even.”

 “Don’t,” the Synth says, entirely without wrath. “I don't feel pain and you know it. You know what I am. You knew the moment you saw my eyes.” He looks somewhat fretful about this, as if it’s a source of great insecurity: the too-bright eyes, incongruous in his otherwise perfectly human face. 

“And you know what I am,” Jean replies. “You knew the moment you saw my gun. So let’s cut the bullshit here, because I’m sore as hell and I don’t wanna be here all night. I'm going to stand up now, and you're going to let me." He gathers himself into a crouch, slowly, watching the Synth for any sudden movements. "And while I'm at it, I want to ask you a little question.”

"The gun stays where it is," the Synth warns.

Jean holds his palms up, fingers splayed and empty. "Fine, fine. No guns. But you need to talk, friend. I want to know why you're lurking around in a half-collapsed building like a fucking ghost. What happened? What are you running from?" 

He’s expecting a convoluted story ripped straight from the book of rogue Synthetic clichés: he’s fed up of being treated like chattel and is rebelling for the good of his replicant kin. Or maybe he’s a Skindroid, an artificial prostitute created solely to pleasure humans in whatever perverse fashion they desire, and he simply can’t take it anymore. The organic skin and hair would point in that direction; only the cheap Skindroids come with an artificial epidermis, because people like to kid themselves into believing they’re fucking something a little classier than a sentient sex-toy. He’s certainly pretty enough, Jean thinks, appraising the delicate mouth, the freckled nub of his nose.

He doesn’t expect the Synth’s face to crumple, destroying that fine symmetry, his expression desolate and disturbingly human. Jean almost feels sorry for him; he knows that Synthetic emotions are all pre-programmed, that he’s cycling through a bunch of algorithms and coming up with ‘pretty fucking upset’ as the appropriate response to the situation. But _shit,_ he looks sad.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know anything. I just know they’re coming for me. They say I killed a man." If he looked aggrieved earlier, he looks downright devastated now. His posture is static, broad shoulders rigid as ever, but his fingers play distractedly at the hem of his coat, calculating the probabilities and possibilities: _could I have? Did I?_ He doesn’t ask the question, but it’s plain as the freckles on his face. "I know I don't want to go back," he says, after a pause. "And if you are here to take me back...I don't want to have to hurt you."

Implicit in his phrasing: _but if you don't get out of my way, I will_. "You're non-Asimov compliant," Jean says, looping his hands behind his head. The Disruptor shifts beneath his arm; he's not completely defenceless, then, but he doesn't want to rely on it. Not anymore. Not after last time. "Did you break the programming yourself?"

"I don't think I ever had it," the Synth says. And then, quickly: "But I have no desire to harm humans. That's the truth. I can't be certain, but I don't think I killed anyone."

Jean mulls this over for a moment. It's true that Synthetics are capable of lying, in a roundabout sort of way. It's usually a lie of omission, a vital piece of information simply not provided. They don't tell the sort of lies humans tell one another - stating a fact known to be false in order to achieve a specific outcome. But as he observes the Synth's face, muscles tightening and twitching unconsciously as he stared Jean straight in the eyes, he can't help but think there's something really fucking weird about this one. Maybe it's the skin, with its visible pores and hairs and freckles, but he seems realer, somehow. Warmer. Like maybe he's not so dangerous after all.  
It's just a gut feeling, but Jean's not convinced he's killed anyone either.

"Okay," Jean says. "Let's start at the start then. What do you remember? You got a name, serial number, anything like that?"

The Synth chews thoughtfully on his lower lip for a second, and shit, Jean thinks, if that isn't just the most human gesture; either he's been expertly programmed, or he's spent a lot of time watching and learning. "I think," he says, carefully, "they called me Marco."

"Marco." Nice name. Sounds vaguely Italian; it goes well with the dark hair and olive skin. "Okay, Marco. I'm Jean Kirschtein, and if you're willing to trust me, I think I can help you with your little memory-loss problem. It'll mean heading inner-city, but I'll keep you safe. Scout's honour."

Maybe he's imagining it, but Marco's limbs seem to slacken a little, like all the tension has dissipated. He might lack a failsafe, but all Synthetics have the same basic programming: humans are good. Throw in a few magic words like 'trust' and his compliance centre'll be lighting up like a Christmas tree. It's manipulative as hell but it works, and Jean's primary interest is getting out of this crooked shitheap building with his limbs intact and his prize in tow.

And, okay. Maybe he _does_ feel a little sorry for him. 

"Okay," Marco nods, decisive. "Where are you going to take me?"

Jean scoops the Jericho up and slips it back into his holster. If the Synth notices, he doesn't make a fuss. "We're going to meet a friend of mine," he says. "C'mon Marco. Let's get out of here."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean tells a little white lie which'll almost certainly come back to bite him on the ass. And then he gets drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's my tumblr](http://revolvermonkcelot.tumblr.com), come say hello and things

The Mono is mostly empty on the ride back, which is a blessing, because Marco spends most of the ride staring raptly out of the front window, gawking at landscapes Jean has always thought of as irredeemably ugly. The Hypermall, a giant sphere of soot-smeared glass; the rectangular patch of bare, featureless scrub that constitutes a 'park'. And, tracing the Mono's path like a shadow, the canal, a sliver of grey-brown choked with all manner of detritus, from shopping carts to drowned dogs. Marco takes it all in, quietly fascinated, as if what he's seeing is an artist's impression, or some other strange fiction.

Jean sits opposite, gawky knees almost clashing with Marco's - apparently, the Mono was designed only to comfortably house people under five foot five. He's more interested in the near-perfect replication of human expression taking place. Like the way Marco's eyes widen a fraction when they sweep past the Razorgirl arena; bright floodlights and flashing red holo-logo cast against the black sky like the Batsignal. The way his throat catches at the sight of the Business District, growing ever closer as the Mono eats up the distance, all colourful neon and dancing logos.

"You've never seen this before?" Jean asks - quietly, though their segment of the Mono is empty save for a solitary drunk passed out at the back.

"I don't know," Marco replies. His fingers trace the shapes of tall, distant buildings, following the murky line of the horizon as it sinks slowly into darkness. "I feel as if I know this place, but I don't remember ever having seen it."

It's a little weird, the idea that a Synth might 'feel' anything, but whatever. It's a figure of speech. "This facility you escaped from," Jean says. His voice is almost lost beneath the thrum of the track passing below, but the years have taught him to be paranoid; there are eyes and ears everywhere, and no way of knowing for certain who they belong to. And christ knows there are enough people in this city who'd love a chance to break his legs. "It wasn't inner-city? You don't recognise any of this?"

"Not from up here," Marco says. "Everything seems different from this height. Smaller. I realise that's a trick of perception, but..." he looks up at Jean, and he's smiling, like it's his first time at the beach or something. "I like this. Being up high. Seeing everything all at once. How do you take it all in?"

Jean shrugs. "I see it all the time," he says. The Mono passes over the outskirts of the industrial zone; there's a cardboard city down there, sprawled out beneath the overpass, and the warm, flickering lights of the trashcan fires punctuate the darkness like red eyes, glaring up at them as they pass. "Kinda tired of seeing it, to tell you the truth."  
Marco pulls away from the window, replacing his hands in his lap. "That's a little sad," he says, like a Synthetic has any concept of sorrow beyond that which has been programmed.

"You know what's sadder?" Jean slips out of his seat and plops beside Marco, placing a mock-friendly hand on his shoulder. He points a finger out at the city; Marco's eyes follow the trajectory of his finger. "Out where the canal loops is a bridge. That's where the Bliss freaks hang out. They've spent so long fucked out of their skulls that they can barely function anymore. That's why they stink of piss and can't remember their own surnames. And back there, past the park - yes, they actually have the audacity to call that square mile of dogshit and grass a park - that's where you'll find the Pleasure Centre. Do I need to explain what goes on down there?"

The blank look on Marco's face suggests that he does. Jean sighs; it's not like he relishes pissing on Marco's parade, but the sooner he learns what kind of world he's been created to serve in, the better he'll take it. Probably.

"People go there to fuck," Jean says; he's aware that the woman who got on at Central Canal Station is shooting him looks to kill, hands clamped around her toddler's ears - he's gurgling away cheerfully, probably too young to understand a word Jean's saying, and anyway, it's not his words that are the problem, it's this shitpit of a city. "You can find pretty much anything you want down there, if you've got enough cash. And I do mean 'anything'. Humans of all ages, Modifieds, real animals, Synthetic animals. And Skindroids." His eyes are trained intently on Marco's face as he reels off the list, but his expression never falters. Synths are terrible liars, but they excel at concealing emotion.

"We're an island," he says. "A single bridge connects us to the mainland, but nobody ever goes there. Why would they? Your kind are totally illegal there, and the people here have grown used to you. They fear you, and some of them even hate you, but they can't imagine life without Synthetics to make it simpler. So they stay here." He meets the stone stare of the woman opposite. Something in his eyes makes her look away, clutching her baby a little tighter. “The people of this city’ll accept any degree of squalor if it means they get to keep screwing you, and using you, and enslaving you. What do you think of that, Marco?”

"Our function is to serve you, isn’t it?" Marco says, flat, and Jean can't tell if it's a statement or a question. His eyes are still trained on the distance as it slips past, but he’s contemplative now, like he’s thinking about what hides in the dark places, hidden underneath all those flickering neon lights. And then he lifts his face, so he’s looking straight up at Jean. The shutter-whirr of his pupils as they contract is faintly disturbing. “Why do you stay here, if you hate it so much?”

Jean leans back in his seat. From this angle, District Maria seems to be retreating at great speed, as if it can break free of District Rose entirely, if only it moves fast enough. His fingers creep down to the leather holster at his hip, lightly brushing the grip. After so long without it, the Jericho’s presence is like the return of an old, beloved friend.

“Because here is where the work is,” Jean says, “and I don’t know how to do anything else but this.”

*

Connie lives a five-minute walk from the station, and Jean has never been more grateful for this than when the skies open the moment they exit the Mono. A week’s worth of rain tumbles down with surprising force, hitting the pavement like handfuls of pennies. Marco, fully waterproofed and temperature-regulated, strolls on out into the downpour like it’s a pleasantly warm shower. Jean’s half tempted to steal his jacket, but it’s the only thing hiding that godawful pastel jumpsuit from the prying eyes of the public. And Jean’s not exactly eager to advertise his companion’s ‘just-escaped-from-a-secure-facility’ status.

The apartment itself is a shoebox situated in one of those purpose-built, glass-fronted blocks that line the canalside, each designed to fit a slightly different aesthetic; a jumble of giant glass Rubik’s cubes stretching out as far as the eye can see. The balconies jut out across the canal like it’s something anyone would want to spend any amount of time looking at. In the summer, the unenviable stench of sewage and algae and rot rises from the murky water like a fog. Not Jean’s idea of a desirable residence, but the rent is relatively cheap, and thanks to Jean, Connie doesn’t really possess a sense of smell anymore.

Life-altering head trauma: just one of the many potential side-effects of friendship with Jean Kirschtein.

By the time they hit the shelter of the foyer, Jean’s soaked through and breathless from running. It takes the focus off Marco, at least; everyone’s too busy staring at Jean like he just crawled out of the storm drain. He’s dripping water all over the faux-marble tiles, leaving puddles in his wake, and Marco’s at his heels like a faithful Labrador, going utterly unnoticed in the wake of Jean’s watery destruction. He contemplates the elevator, but the idea of being trapped in a small box with a potentially murderous Synthetic and a host of much-drier strangers doesn’t appeal, for some weird reason. And the stairs seem like a good idea right up until he remembers, four flights up, that Connie lives on the eleventh floor.

Marco doesn’t even break a sweat, taking the stairs two at a time; striding easily with long legs which seem to have been designed for this purpose. Muscles that never grow tired, lungs that never seem to run out of air. Sometimes, when he’s feeling darkly ironic, he thinks it would’ve been better if he had lost his leg; they’d have replaced it with a new, improved prosthetic, and he’d be leaping cheerfully up the stairs like a bunny on amphetamines instead of dragging his aching, useless flesh-and-bone leg behind him.

“This friend,” Marco says, as they near the top. The lights flicker on and off like flashbulbs, and the carpet is so worn underfoot it’s almost ceased to exist. “He knows what I am, right?”

Jean pauses in his climbing, breathing hard. His damp clothes cling uncomfortably to his skin; it’s like being wrapped in a condom from the neck down. “He’ll know,” Jean says. “Don’t worry. I’m as honest a bounty-hunter as you’re ever likely to meet. If I intended to turn you in, you’d know about it.”

Marco shoots him a look best categorised as ‘suspicious’. “Why would you do that?”

Jean can’t help but smile at that. Perhaps Marco’s not the naïve idealist he’d pegged him for. “Because it wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.”

Connie’s apartment is made conspicuous by the presence of a desiccated spider plant sitting outside the door. It’s been there for as long as Jean has known him – it was a Christmas gift from Mikasa, who had apparently overestimated his ability to be a responsible adult. Occasionally, someone’ll ask him why he doesn’t just throw it out, and Connie’ll shrug and say “it was a gift,” as if that absolves him for letting the plant die in the first place.

Jean thumps on the door with a closed fist. After maybe half a minute, Connie appears. He’s wearing a too-big leather jacket and a grey beanie tugged over his ears, like they’ve caught him on his way out. He smiles when he sees Jean. The smile dissipates very quickly when he catches sight of Marco.

“No way,” he says, disappearing behind the door. It stays open only by virtue of Jean’s arm, inserted quickly and without much thought into the closing gap; it hurts like a motherfucker but it does the job. He shoulder-barges his way into Connie’s apartment, holding the door open for Marco, who follows, uncertain. Connie’s house always smells like slightly burnt toast - because he can’t cook for shit – and, faintly, of weed. It’s almost pleasant in its familiarity.

“Jean, what the hell are you bringing him here for?” Connie hisses. He’s got his back pressed against the wall, like that’ll make a blind bit of difference should Marco decide to activate kill mode.

“New toy,” Jean replies. He shoves Marco forward; Connie flinches visibly at his approach. The Synthetic gives a halting little wave, smiling politely. “I thought you’d be happy. I know how you love to tinker with cyborgs.”

“Cyborg is a pejorative term,” Marco says quietly.

“He’s non-Asimov,” Connie says. He’s resolutely not making eye contact with Marco; if he pretends he’s not there, maybe he’ll magically cease to exist. “He could crush me with his thumb, Jean, he’s killed people already and I cannot fucking believe you brought him to my house. Take him to ReCorp. Get your money and get it done with.” He shakes his head. “Just…get him out of here.”

And then Jean does something incredibly stupid.  And when he looks back on this moment, he’ll wonder why it isn’t possible to go back in time and punch your past self in the goddamn mouth.

“Your information was wrong,” he says, placing a friendly hand on Marco’s shoulder. “He’s all Asimov’d-up. Right, buddy?” And even though he knows this is a very fucking dangerous game he’s playing now, he’s still praying silently that Marco will know, instinctively, that now would be a very good time for a lie of omission.

“I have no desire to harm humans,” Marco says.

Connie’s eyes narrow. “What version of the Asimov Edict were you programmed with?”

Well, shit, Jean thinks. Of all the times for Connie to use that shrivelled raisin of a brain. But Marco just tilts his head, looks a little sad and says “I’m sorry, most of my program data appears to be inaccessible. I don’t even know my serial number.”

It’s a lifeline, and Jean grabs it with both hands. “That’s actually why I’m here,” he says. “Y’see, Marco here has a bit of an amnesia problem. And what I mean by that is, he can’t remember a damn thing about the place he escaped from, what he was doing there or how he got out.”

“I fail to see where I fit into any of this,” Connie replies. He sounds wary. He probably should be.

“I figured you might be able to dive in,” Jean says. “Rummage in his files, see if you can locate the missing memories. Piece together what really happened.” He makes it sound as offhand as possible – a mere exercise in satisfying curiosity. But the truth is, something’s off here. ReCorp have never offered him a bonus for early retrieval before, and the sheer lack of information available makes Jean distinctly uncomfortable. He knows, instinctively, that he’s not being told the full story. And usually that’s fine; Jean’s usual approach to Synth-hunting is to get in, get out and get paid.

But something about Marco bothers him. And he can see by the way Connie looks the Synthetic up and down that he's not the only one. But Connie doesn't ask as many questions as he should, and he trusts Jean enough to swallow the lie. Jean should probably feel guilty about it. Probably.

“It’s an interesting gig,” Connie admits, folding his arms across his chest. “But you’re gonna have to wait to get your answers. I promised Reiner I’d meet him and Bert for a few drinks, and it’s been a real long time since I did anything fun."

“Delving into Synthetic brains is fun,” Jean says. The resulting look of total alarm on Marco’s face is priceless. He’s trying so hard to roll with Jean’s idea, to pretend this has all been pre-discussed and pre-agreed, but the prospect of letting this scruffy little stoner anywhere near his brainspace seems a little too much for Marco to take in right now.

"Not as fun as getting Bertholdt drunk enough to dance," Connie says. "You should come with. It's been a long time since you last came out with us. You remember Ymir?" Jean nods his assent; Ymir's not the kind of person you forget in a hurry. "Remember that bust she pulled down in Stohess, the Skindroid-smuggling ring? She bought a bar. Retired from freelancing completely. It's called the Frost Lounge."

"Yeah, I heard of it," Jean says. "Frost Lounge. Suits her. She always did strut around like she had an icicle up her ass."  
Connie snorts at that. He'd been Ymir's runner for a short while, though the two of them had clashed like oil and water. "I heard it's staffed entirely by the Skins she rescued. She got their programming broken and now they're all legit. Got papers and everything." He nods in Marco's direction. "You could even bring your new friend here. Nobody'll look twice at him."

Jean shakes his head. "No way. He's a wanted man. Synth. Whatever."

"You really think anyone from ReCorp's gonna set foot in the Hub?"

"I think Jaeger  might, and he'll think nothing of trying to steal my bounty out from under my nose," Jean replies, a little sourly.

"I am right here," Marco mutters, staring at his feet.

"Well, look," Connie says, throwing his hands up. "You could go home and sit there all night with your thumb up your ass, but in my expert opinion you need to start talking to other human beings again, before you completely forget how to verbally communicate." Connie's shorter than Jean by a head, but he's got no real concept of this, and starts shoving Jean with both hands like he's an obstacle that needs clearing. Marco leaps out of the way, watching with mild fascination as Connie buffets a protesting Jean back towards his front door.

"Alright, alright," Jean says at last, maneuvering free. Connie's persistence is irritating, but he's right. It has been a long time since he socialised with anyone other than the checkout kid at the Seven-Eleven. "If you promise to take a look at Marco later, I'll do it. But only for an hour, okay? I've got important stuff to do."

"Watching the home shopping channel doesn't really meet the definition of 'important stuff'," Connie says, looking triumphant. "You guys meet me downstairs. I'm gonna lock up."

'Locking up', for Connie, is a time-consuming ritual which involves putting a dozen arcane gadgets and gizmos into sleep mode. This means that when Jean blocks Marco off on the sixth floor landing and backs him into the corner, he knows there's no danger of their conversation being overheard.

Jean places one hand adjacent to Marco's head, palm flat against the wall. With the other, he peels back his damp overcoat, revealing both holsters. Marco's a little taller than him, and it's tough to be intimidating when you're glaring up at someone instead of towering over them, but packing heat's a big help in that arena. There's perhaps two inches of space between them, and Jean can feel the heat radiating from him, his clothes already bone-dry; Synthetic body heat is uncomfortably similar to a human fever.

"You've already met my friend Mr. Gun," Jean says, voice low; the stairwell echoes, and all walls have ears. "And this is his assistant, Mr. Neural Disruptor. If you so much as look the wrong way at any of my friends, I will not hesitate to render you nonfunctional. Are we clear?"

Marco's expression is perfectly neutral. "We are," he agrees. His pupils whir and contract, black holes in dark eyes, sending information to his central processing unit: Threat issued. Presence of firearms confirmed. Subject possibly mentally unstable. Proceed with caution. It's exactly the right reaction, at least physically, and Jean's muscles relax; he draws back, allows Marco to pass.

"It's nothing personal," Jean says, matching Marco's long-legged stride out of sheer determination. "It's just that I'm a little emotionally invested in these idiots, christ knows why. You know how us meat-puppets are."

Marco smiles faintly. He's probably never heard a human appropriate a Synthetic slur before.

"Yes," Marco says. "I do."

*

"...and this scrawny piece of shit squares up to me - I'm not kidding, he makes Connie look like Mr. Universe - and he says 'you wanna go, pig?' So there's me, trying to think of a comeback that won't embarrass this kid into doing something stupid, and Bertl here actually starts laughing. He laughs so hard he can't breathe, and this kid's slowly turning purple with rage, and I think, shit, I gotta control this situation, this punk’s got a knife. But Bertl's laughing so damn hard that I can't help myself, and before I know it I'm laughing too, and this kid looks just about ready to explode." Reiner's eyes are bright with mirth at the memory, and even Bertholdt's smirking a little, sitting bolt upright in his chair the way he always does in social situations. Beside him, Connie sits cross-legged on a bar stool – how he keeps his balance is anyone’s guess, but the whole abstaining-from-alcohol thing probably helps.

Jean had almost forgotten what the sound of real, uncanned laughter sounded like. It's a pleasant thing to be reacquainted with, and the swift consumption of four Martinis only makes it all the more pleasant. He doesn’t even drink Martinis usually, but Reiner ordered it for him, and the more he drinks, the better they seem to taste. He sits across from Reiner, reclining in his seat and swirling the olive around in the puddle at the bottom of his glass. Marco’s next to him, listening raptly to Reiner’s tale, which is much easier when your ears are built with the ability to drown out background noise – for some bizarre reason Ymir insists on piping K-Pop into the bar at eardrum-bursting volumes.

In the low light, it’s easy to forget that Marco’s not actually human; the flatness of his eyes is lost beneath the blue-pink lights overhead, and everything else is so well-crafted he looks perfectly real, a legitimate fleshbag.

He hasn’t told anyone Marco’s a Synth, and Connie’s blessedly silent on the subject, introducing Marco as “some guy Jean’s trying to impress so let’s all pretend he’s really badass okay?” And neither Reiner nor Bertholdt seem remotely bothered about the specifics because, somewhat amazingly, they’re actually pretty happy to see Jean. Maybe Connie was right, he thinks, letting the buzz of the Martinis and the loud music in his ears gently numb his brain. Maybe he does need this.

“Just when I think I’ve totally lost control of the situation,” Reiner continues, waving his beer for emphasis, “the kid just gives up. I’m not kidding, he hands over the damn knife and shakes his head and says ‘look, just don’t tell my mom about this, okay’?”

“And that is how Reiner and I laughed our way out of being stabbed to death,” Bertholdt says.

“Easiest arrest I’ve ever made,” Reiner claps a hand on Bertholdt’s shoulder, smiling fondly at him. “I told ‘em they ought to make him a deputy or something.” Reiner’s basically a giant man-shaped brick; he’s got a flat nose, like a boxer’s, and shoulders like breeze blocks. He could easily knock a grown man flat with a single blow, which is a pretty useful trait for a man in his line of work. But he’s kind of a gentle giant when it comes to Bertholdt, which is either sweet or sickening, depending on Jean’s mood.

Maybe it’s the alcohol speaking, but he’s really not feeling the eye-fucking thing right now.

“This is a real touching story and all,” Jean says, “but I really need to take a piss.” He shoves his chair out from under the table and goes to stand, but the Martinis must have been stronger than he’d realised because his legs feel a little too loose, and his feet seem to have been screwed on backwards. He stumbles, and it’s only Marco’s lightning-fast reactions that save him from a bruised ass. The Synth’s hands grip him tightly at the waist, holding him upright as his legs turn to spaghetti beneath him.

The sound of Connie’s raucous cackling is audible even over the K-Pop.

“Sir, are you all right?” The waitress – ex-Skindroid, her artificial epidermis plastic-shiny under the coloured lights – smiles politely up at him. She’s holding a tray of drinks, and the sweet-earthy scent of bourbon filters up. His senses are muzzy, but he can almost feel the burn of it tracing a path down into his stomach. He pulls free of Marco’s grasp, upright and stable now.

“I’d be a lot better if I could have one of those,” Jean says, indicating the tray with a nod.

“Pretty sure you’ve had enough for now,” Reiner says, in that ‘just a little friendly advice’ voice he adopts when someone’s about to do something really silly. It’s a cop thing: talk them down before you have to arrest them.

“I’ve had enough Martinis,” Jean says. “Not had enough Bourbon, though.” He knows he’s being childish but screw it, he’s a grown man and if he wants to make bad decisions then that’s his call. He plucks a glass of Bourbon from the tray – the glass is heavy, probably crystal, Ymir must be turning a decent profit in this dive to trust her customers with something so expensive. Marco’s eyes meet his as he knocks the drink back; he’s cool and impassive, casting no judgement on his mildly inebriated state. It’s tantamount to encouragement, so Jean grabs another Bourbon and dispatches it in a similarly graceless fashion, dropping the empty glass back on the tray. And then, because he’s not a complete asshole, he fumbles in his pocket for his wallet and withdraws a crumpled twenty.

“Tell Ymir she oughta spend less on the crystal and more on whisky,” he says. His voice is hoarse, the residual burn of the liquor hot in his throat. Behind him, Reiner and Bertholdt are conversing with Connie, studiously ignoring his assholery. Just like old times, Jean thinks, watching the waitress pitter-patter off on her tiny feet, dark hair swishing behind her like she’s in a goddamn shampoo commercial. He glances back and Marco’s still observing him in that quiet way of his, all creepy and silent like a ghost.

Jean stalks off in search of the men’s bathroom. After walking a few aimless circuits of the bar, almost bumping into every single patron at least once, he locates it. It’s empty, and pretty clean for a men’s room in the Hub, which is to say that only one sink is clogged with hand-towels, and the floor is mostly urine-free. It’s also empty, which is a relief because it's all urinals, and Jean’s a nervous pisser.

The strip-lights overhead are unpleasantly bright, accentuating the dark smudges beneath Jean’s eyes. He’s still dressed in his damp work clothes – in this environment, the long coat just makes him look like some kind of furtive pervert. He’s a fucking mess, and apparently beer-goggles don’t apply to one’s own reflection.

He sidles up to the urinal and goes to unzip when he hears footsteps on the tiles – it’s the unmistakeable click of killer heels, which means either Jean’s in the wrong bathroom or a very confident gentleman has just walked in. When Ymir appears at the adjacent urinal, he’s almost disappointed.

“He’s a Synth,” she says.

Jean zips his fly back up. Not that Ymir would care; she’d probably rather stick forks in her eyes than look at a penis. “This is the men’s room,” he says, not meeting her gaze. He knows she’s smirking. It’s what she does when she thinks she’s got one-up on someone.

“This is my bar. I go where I like.” She’s close enough so he can smell her perfume. It’s distinctly masculine, and suits her perfectly. Ymir’s got that kind of unattainable, confident sexuality about her – the kind that says ‘I know my ass is perfect but if you touch it, I’m gonna cut your fucking hands off’. If Jean were a little straighter, he might find it appealing. He’s always liked a challenge. “He’s cute. Where’d you find him?”

“He’s not a Synth,” Jean says.

“Jean, please, I spent five years hunting them down, I think I know a Synth when I see one.” He peers up at her, then, and she’s every bit as smug as he remembers her, grinning mouth painted a flattering crimson. She’s wearing a man’s suit, crisply tailored, long slender limbs encased in expensive-looking grey pinstripe. “What is he, ex-Skindroid? He’s not your usual type.”

Jean steps away from the urinal. “Didn’t realise I had a type.”

“Sure you do. Cute, blonde, petite. Like Christa, but with more Y chromosome.”

He snorts. “That was a long time ago.”

Ymir shrugs. She grabs a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and starts wiping down the soap-scum smeared across the counter. It’s a weird sight, this immaculately turned out woman scrubbing the men’s bathroom clean. “All I’m saying is, maybe it’ll be good for you. Help you work through your issues. I heard about what happened on the Trost job. Sounds like it hit you hard. You could stand to have a little fun, and there’s gotta be a healthier way than hijacking trays of Bourbon.”

“I paid for those,” Jean mutters.

“He’s cute,” Ymir says, in a tone which suggests this is the bottom line on the subject. “You’re lonely. If he’s not a target, have the hairless wonder break his pleasure-programming and get to know him. You’re no good with other people. Maybe you might do better with a Synth.”

The idea of fucking a Synthetic makes Jean’s flesh crawl. It might well be socially acceptable in a lot of circles, and it’s pretty common knowledge that Ymir’s shacked up with one of her own ex-Skindroids – Christa, cute as a kitten in a basket of ducklings but Synthetic, and therefore faintly creepy in the same way Marco’s proving to be. And yes, Jean hasn’t been laid in a depressingly long time, but he’s not so desperate that a walking blow-up doll seems a viable solution.

It’s okay for Ymir. She’s got no shame. Back when she was a freelancer she frequently did TV spots, magazine interviews, flaunting her (illegal) occupation with a brazenness Jean had both admired and hated. And now she walks about with this sweet blonde thing on her arm like she’s somehow transcended the need for human relationships. Well, good for her, but Jean doesn’t need any of that. What he needs is another drink.

“Jesus, I thought you’d fallen in,” Connie says, when he returns to their table. The whisky is beginning to take hold, now; Connie’s face is a little too bright, his features somewhat indistinct. It occurs to Jean that pizza rolls and three packets of Cheetos is a pretty insubstantial foundation on which to add large quantities of booze. It also occurs to him that the only real solution to this is to add more booze.

“Police Chief Braun,” Jean says, in as obnoxiously loud a tone as he can muster. “Another of your finest olive-drink thingies, please.”

And nobody argues with him this time. He gets his Martini, and another, and soon the glasses are mounting on the table and everything is shimmering pink and blue, and even the K-Pop starts to sound good. Jean slumps in his chair, braying laughter at Reiner’s tales of policing and, later, Connie dancing with Christa, Ymir watching them from her place behind the bar – admittedly, he’s quite good, but Jean’s quite drunk so in the real world, he might look like a cat having a seizure. And all the while, he feels Marco’s eyes on him - observing, studying, taking mental notes. As Jean gulps down his glass of whatever-the-fuck, he realises there’s something he’s supposed to be remembering about Marco. Something really important. But it’s off on the periphery, hidden in the fog of his own drunkenness, and it can’t possibly be that important if he can’t remember it. Besides, he’s so innocuous, just sitting there, chatting idly with Bertholdt, pausing every now and again to watch Jean, as if he might have disappeared in the interim.

No. It can’t have been that important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm frankly amazed at the reception this has had so far - thank you all so much! it's gonna be a bumpy ride so fasten your seatbelts, folks!

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm British so I apologise for the trousers. And the torch. And whatever other insidious Britishisms I've left here.)


End file.
